


Hold Your Heart [in my hand]

by Iolre



Series: Burn My Heart [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Nightmare, Sherstrade, vulnerable!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 16:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of the fire, from Sherlock’s perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Your Heart [in my hand]

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a standalone from the previous piece, but it's set in the same universe.
> 
> Based on this prompt for a sequel: 'I wonder if Sherlock knows that at Greg's last moments in the fire he thought of Sherlock? Did he see his photograph in Greg's hand when he rescued him? Can I request a sequel pleaseee? :3'

_“Greg!” Sherlock shouted desperately, running around to the side of the house. A window! He grabbed at it, testing to see if it was locked, grunting when it refused to move. Turning, Sherlock smashed his elbow through the pane that was closest to the lock, counting on the thick wool of his coat to protect his skin. Opening the window, he shed his coat and climbed in, coughing at the thick smoke._

_There. He saw Greg’s slumped form against the door, the door they had been unable to open. Sherlock darted over, crouching down in front of him, easing Greg’s forehead up to examine his face. He was unconscious, breathing shallowly, and there was an unhealthy pallor to his skin that Sherlock didn’t like. A picture fluttered to the floor, and Sherlock paused before reaching down to grab it._

_His breath caught in his throat when he saw his face, saw Greg next to him in the photo, a smile on his face to match the grumpy expression on Sherlock’s. “Sherlock?” John shouted, right outside the window._

_Sherlock shoved the photo in his pocket, gently grabbing his partner and hoisting the more solid man over his shoulder. Later he would give all of the credit to adrenaline, for being able to lift him. “He needs medical help!” he shouted back, heading back towards the window._

_No matter how fast he moved, the window never seemed to get closer. The flames were catching up, crackling, and the room was so hot that Sherlock could barely breathe. No, no, he thought desperately, trying to move faster, weighed down by Greg’s weight. He couldn’t lose him, not now…there was a burst of heat and everything went dark._

Sherlock opened his eyes, only peripherally aware of the hand on his shoulder. His breathing was accelerated, and he was shaking, breath coming in short, sharp gasps as adrenaline swam through his veins. “Sherlock.” Greg’s voice was soft, sleepy, and Sherlock flinched away from it. He had almost lost him, in the fire. He had almost been too late. “Nightmare?”

Silently Sherlock turned on his side, pressing himself against the warm, solid body, burying his head in the crook of Greg’s neck. His arm went around Greg’s waist under the duvet, and he allowed himself to be quiet for a few, long moments, focusing on breathing in Greg’s scent, feeling his heart beat in his chest. “Yes.”

“I’m here, love.” Greg nuzzled the mop of curly hair, wrapped his strong arms around Sherlock’s lanky body and just held him. A hand drifted up and down Sherlock’s back, a caress, and slowly Sherlock felt his respirations return to normal, felt the adrenaline leave his body until he was loose, curled against his partner. “It’s been four months,” the DI said gently. “Are you okay?”

“The picture,” Sherlock replied after a few moments, the words so quiet he was not sure that Greg would hear.

Greg chuckled ruefully. “Lost in the fire, I guess,” he murmured, carding a hand into Sherlock’s curls and holding him gently, securely. “I know, sentiment.”

Sherlock hummed his acknowledgement, and felt Greg relax. It wasn’t long before the DI was asleep again, and Sherlock lay silent, listening to the odd hitch in Greg’s breathing, the way his chest would rattle occasionally - leftovers of the fire that had nearly claimed his life mere months before. The last thing Greg had seen before his eyes had closed was the photo. The photo of Sherlock? Of them together.

He didn’t tell Greg that he knew where the photo was. That it was hidden, in his draw, underneath his carefully maintained sock index. He looked at it each morning, under the guise of organisation, and every night, before he went to sleep. It was a reminder, a promise, a wish. His past, his present, and what he wanted to be his future. Sherlock kissed Greg sleepily before curling against him and allowing sleep to claim him.

The next morning, Sherlock allowed Greg to claim a distracted kiss before he watched the DI cross the room and disappear out the front door. He was still staying at 221B Baker Street, something John hadn’t commented on after the first night Greg had stayed at his own flat. Sherlock had woke him up screaming, caught in the throes of a nightmare he could not stop.

John came down the stairs and immediately went into the kitchen, turning on the kettle. Sherlock stopped what he was doing, lifting his head from the eyes of the microscope and focusing intently on the shorter man. “John.”

“Yeah?” John blinked blearily and rubbed at his eyes, pouring water into his mug to steep the tea.

“I need your help.”

-

As the months passed, Greg moved in, and John moved out (into Mycroft’s home, a fact that disgusted the younger Holmes brother). The upstairs bedroom was converted into a laboratory, and 221B became even more cluttered. Greg still went to work each day, sometimes for days at a time. Sherlock joined him, going over cases and chasing murders, John at his side.

Greg never went anywhere without his wallet. Inside was his most prized possession - a photograph Sherlock had given him, to replace the one that he had lost. John had taken it, just over four months after Greg had been caught in the fire. Sherlock wasn’t smiling, but he was watching Greg with an uncharacteristic tenderness in his eyes, an unguarded warmth that warmed Greg’s insides whenever he looked at it. It was a reminder of how far they had come, how much they had conquered.

Sherlock never talked about the photo, didn’t mention it, averted his eyes when Greg did. It had simply appeared in his wallet, to be discovered when he had ordered take out and went to pull out the notes to pay. It was small, wallet-sized, and Sherlock had simply wrote ‘SH & GL’ on the back in his elegant cursive. Greg had stood, and stared, and stared some more, at the reminder that Sherlock cared. Not that Greg was surprised that Sherlock had deduced exactly what it meant to have that photo, the sentiment Greg assigned to such a memento, but he was surprised that Sherlock had allowed himself to be captured in such a moment of vulnerability, forever immortalised for his partner.

In return, Greg didn’t mention the times he caught Sherlock in a dark place, the partially burnt photo clasped in his hand, pressed to his forehead, his lips, Sherlock murmuring words as if he was praying, a mantra. Instead Greg would pick the consulting detective up, cradle him, hold him, until the darkness disappeared and Sherlock returned to normal. The photo would disappear, but Greg would find it in its normal hiding spot, hidden underneath Sherlock’s meticulous sock index.

They fit each other, in a weird way, accentuated and completed each other in a way that no one else ever would. Sherlock slotted against Greg, curled up and twined together in bed, so close that one could not tell where one of them began and the other ended. “I love you,” he murmured, meaning it, using three simple words to encompass the maelstrom of emotions that he felt for the other man. It had been a leap, for him, inviting Greg into his life, into the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind, but there had been no one better equipped to guard his heart, no one else who had seen what Sherlock had fought so hard to hide.

With Greg, Sherlock felt no need to hide. He was safe, he was protected, he was loved.


End file.
